And so the hot dry
SinaiBeckoned like an immense
vessel of refugePerhaps like a woman
in the throes of seductionSo I fled to the oasis
and Nueiba with crystalsharp lights of blazing
orange/brown huesAnd at night…piercing
quiet…at lastWith a marble of cobalt-blue
skiesMassaged by the washing
hands of a Red Sea in slumberTo quell the turmoil
in the heartOf this high-tech
refugee from aLand lit up by diodes
and Web-driven FantasiesThis fantasy was momentarily
needed aboveThe reality-check
days of pressurizedUrban madnessThe Fleeing…accepted
by a heartBeginning to quiet.